


Personal Eden

by asclepius_erebus



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Romance, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Good Parent Din Djarin, Grogu | Baby Yoda Being a Little Shit, Protective Din Djarin, Protective Grogu | Baby Yoda, Reader-Insert, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29150157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asclepius_erebus/pseuds/asclepius_erebus
Summary: You're rescued by a terrifying but kind armored man. As you seek to find meaning and purpose in your new life, the two of you become fond of the relationship blossoming between yourself and a little green child, as well as each other.**As of 02/22/2021- mini hiatus due to uni work and midterms. thank you for your patience!**
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Kudos: 19





	1. Armored Man

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to have exhausted the tags, welcome to the shit show. 
> 
> TW's will be provided at the beginning of chapters where applicable. Please let me know if there are any I should add if missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of abuse, degrading language, dead body (implied)

Flanked by suited guards at all four corners of the private billiards room, you stand nervously at the side of your master; an aging politician, paranoid about not only his perception in the public eye, but also self-preservation in the wake of his long winded history of gambling, trafficking, and despicable ideologies that have even the most corrupt audiences cannot accept. He frequents this particular casino, _how fitting_ , and is notorious for his poor betting skills and overall ineptitude for making any sort of rational monetary agreement. You’ve witnessed his dumbness before, betting all of his credits away simply to serve his enormous ego.

You keep your head low, not allowing yourself even a glimpse at his newest client until it was permitted of you to do so, that was the rule. Instead, you focus on the sparkling silver platter in your hands, covered with an equally as spectacular dish cover, with elaborate embellishments and with enough brilliance for you to make out even the finest details in the reflections of the muraled ceiling. You catch your own reflection in it, your ruby lips coming to a fine line of both despondence and humiliation.

For as long as you’ve endured this job, it never fills you with the pride that your master promised you it would, nor what he shames you into believing.

You’d agreed to the work a few years ago (five… perhaps), where the pay was handsome, living conditions guaranteed to be provided, and with the promise of growth and experience to graduate you into higher ranked and paying jobs. However, you quickly learn this was not the case when standing in a line with many other girls who looked nearly exactly the same as you. But by then, you’d signed the contract, and you were picked out of that line of young women to serve the man you are not allowed to refer by name but simply _master_ and _sir._ It’s an arrangement you deeply detest, but one you’ve been conditioned to follow out of fear for your own safety, and security.

“Mando!” Your master greets boisterously, “If you don’t mind me calling you that.”

“Ja’Aele Malsifer.” You hear a voice say in polite greeting, filtered by a modulator, the speaker likely wearing a helmet. But even over the digital graininess, their tone felt warm and pleasant. You do not hear them take the empty seat at the other side of the table, Malsifer is surely displeased by the blatant rejection of his gesture of performative kindness.

“Lighten up, will you? It’s just us friends here today. Y’don’t need to be so uptight.” Malsifer continues, popping open the top of a crystal whiskey bottle and serving himself and his guest a drink. There was still no movement to be heard from the guest he refers to as ‘Mando’.

“I don’t remember us ever being friends, Malsifer.” Mando responds, you hear him lean on the back of the upholstered chair, “What do you have for me, otherwise, I’m leaving.”

You understand this to be your cue to set the silver platter down between them at the table, before the sharp quip of Malsifer’s metal cane snaps at your shins and you nearly let the silver platter collapse onto the ground. Luckily you catch it.

“I didn’t tell you to put it down, did I?” He hisses through his teeth, returning his cane at the side of his seat before taking a drink of his whiskey, “Please, Mando, you haven’t touched your drink!”

“I didn’t ask for it.” Mando responds sharply, “I don’t have time, nor the patience. What do you have?”

Malsifer bitterly motions with his glass for you to set the platter down at the center of the table, removing the cover to unveil a handful of tracking fobs, some blinking more erratically than others. At this opportunity, you steal a glance upwards at his guest, Mando, to find him completely decorated in armor made of Beskar.

He looks completely and utterly enormous in his costume; broad shoulders, puffed chest, gnarly buttons and switches across his wrists, and a cape round his neck for what could only be dramatic effect. He is _terrifying_.

You have experienced your fair share of questionable clients that Malsifer hosted, some as physically repulsing as Hutts, and others more beautiful like Twi’leks, but this armored man (if he even was a man) is clearly a terrifying force, one that _earned_ the Beskar to decorate his armor.

You back away to the side of your master, awaiting any further instruction, and perhaps the opportunity to finally lift your lowered gaze.

“I have a few… enemies, so to speak.” He begins, “Some unfriendly business partners for whom a bounty is worth less than what they owe me.”

“What’s your point?” The armored man asks, “You’d rather have them killed than for them to pay you back?”

You agree to his logic. At this point, you’ve known that Malsifer has exhausted his coffers extensively, and that it’s much easier to clear his debt by killing the ones who owe him and to upcharge anyone or anything that is now required to repay the enormous sums.

“I’m offering you payment for a service.” He replies simply.

“I’m a bounty hunter, not an assassin.” Mando replies just as tersely.

“Exactly!” Malsifer exclaims, “What made you think I won’t compensate you for your troubles?”

“It’s not just me who thinks so.” Mando responds.

Malsifer laughs, swirling his whiskey, “I’m well aware, which is why I’d rather invest in something well worth my money.”

At this point, your eyes perk up at the conversation, sensing that Malsifer’s patience is eating away with every passing moment. Mando does not seem willing to entertain his comments and sarcasm, however, it is how Malsifer determines who is his friend or foe. He is the classical example of someone who requires others to enable his behaviors rather than constructive criticism, no matter how kindly you approach the matter. You’ve felt it across your knees and shins even with the softest, most encouraging, tone of voice.

Mando clears his throat, reaching from some place behind him and keeping his hand there for a moment, “I’ve been given an offer much more expensive than yours…”

“I’ll double the pay!” Malsifer says boldly, his vision set on what Mando holds behind him.

Suddenly, clattering onto the table, is another tracking fob, blinking angrily and rapidly as though the target were right in front of it.

Mando clears his throat, “You.”

Malsifer’s eyes widen in surprise.

The room erupts into the deafening shrieks of red blaster fire as they fly into every corner of the room with deadly precision and accuracy and into Malsifer, before stopping at you.

Your skin erupts into fine little goosebumps, a chill sweeping over you as you barely finish inhaling a breath and drop the silver platter’s cover onto the carpeted ground. The yell you let escape is short lived when you realize that the blaster has taken aim at you, with Mando behind the trigger.

“You. Who are you?” He demands.

Your name quivers from your scared lips, tears blurring your vision altogether as you silently pray to the Maker in an effort to consolidate a good place for you in the afterlife.

“Will you help me take him back to my ship?” Mando asks, his blaster still trained onto you, grip slightly loosened. His voice took on a softer tone, more sympathetic.

Your eyes focus onto him. You didn’t notice his helmet before, too focused on the elaborateness of his other armor to see that the same skill and craftsmanship had been applied to his helmet as well. Sharp angles of the Beskar metal accentuate where sunken cheeks would be, and a thin and impenetrably black visor is the only point of reference for eyes. It looks too much like a storm trooper’s helmet, but judging from the medium of choice, an Imperial manufacturer couldn’t possibly invest so much time, effort, and credits into giving all hundreds and millions of stormtroopers a full set of armor made of Beskar.

“What are you?” You ask, voice shaking, already feeling your makeup melt off your face with every trickling tear.

Mando lowers his blaster irritably, “Will you help me take him back to my ship?”

You decide against any further questioning, knowing that soon, more security will arrive to investigate the situation. For you, it would surely be _on sight._

Nodding, he hoists the lifeless body of your master onto his shoulder before slinging his arm over your shoulders to distribute the brunt of the weight more equally. Malsifer’s metal cane topples to the ground.

Mando kicks it up into his hand, briefly investigating it and removing the silver head piece, revealing the small and compact dagger that you’ve seen be used as a letter opener and an interrogation device.

He hands it off to you, “Might come in handy.” He says.

You’re physically repulsed to be holding the instrument of yours and other’s misery in your hands as a ‘handy’ tool to inflict yet even more suffering, as if it weren’t enough. Clearly, the armored man had little consideration for that.

The two of you clamor out another exit, one that led down an empty stairwell and out back into the gardens. The air smelled rich with incoming rainfall and the aromatic flowers that bloom during the later night hours. This would be an enjoyable setting, however, with a dead body slung over your shoulders, your body experienced all ranges of emotions at once, fifty times over.

The sky begins to open up as the two of you race across the mazes and patches of flowers and into the neighboring forest of trees whose dense canopies made it that much darker than the night and two moons could already afford. The leaves, however, did little to shield from the heavy rain that punished you further on the already unfortunate night. The light and flowy dresses that Malsifer had you wear did little to protect you against the cold downpour that transpires over the course of a few minutes. They stick to your arms, legs, and back as you race with the armored man through the forest, the sounds of shouting and alarms blaring behind you.

The armored man slows, stopping upon an open hull to a ship you could not see very well in the dark. He releases you from the weight of your dead master, dragging him up into the darkness of the hull.

“Go!” The armored man shouts at you insistently.

Your eyes dart behind you, the noise of the shouting, the alarms, and the rain overwhelming your already stressed senses. You try to quickly think of a way out of the forest, but you’re helpless without anything to protect you, feed you, and keep you safe against the elements of the landscape you’re not familiar with. The mobs will certainly find you amidst the shrubbery and trees, making you basically dead. You’d be framed for Malsifer’s death, and subsequently be put to death as punishment.

You look back up at the armored man, who continues to haul Malsifer’s body further into the abyss of his dark hull.

“I have no where to go!” You cry up into the hull, hoping that Mando could hear you, “If I stay I’ll be killed!”

The familiar armor returns into view, side stepping one side of his body out of the ship and the other remaining inside, also deliberating something.

“I don’t need anyone else on my ship.” He says dryly, his helmet looking down at you from his height.

You look back in the direction of the casino, the mobs sounding as if they’re closer.

“Please?!” You beg, “You don’t understand, I have no where to go! I have no family, no friends, no money! If they find me here they’ll blame the murder on me, and then they’ll kill me if they don’t do it now!”

The armored man looks into the distance, seeing the same dancing lights as you are of search animals and security officers scouring the area for yours and his scents.

“Fine.” He says, “Get in”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://asclepius-erebus.tumblr.com/  
> **Personal Eden will exist here too... TBD ;) **


	2. Just Call Me Mando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: None! (lmk if i should include any!)

The armored man turns his back and disappears as you hurry into his ship, gathering up your wet dresses as your shoes strike the metal platform. Once your feet make contact with the main hull of the ship, the enormous door begins to close behind you, advancing the abyss of darkness.

“Hey!” You hear the familiar modulated voice yell roughly in the darkness, “Strap in, this won’t be a smooth take off.”

You don’t know where or how to secure yourself in the empty expanse of the darkness, feeling your way around the metal walls for purchase over anything remotely resembling a handle or belt to hold yourself onto. You feel yourself trembling, still unsure whether it is from fear or excitement, the distinction between them blurring.

A gloved hand suddenly takes a strong grip over your forearm, forcefully directing you to the other side of the hull, and shoves you onto a metal wedge projecting from the side of the wall. Your arms are shoved into the straps of a harness before the hands disappear and you resume hastily buckling yourself into place, your ice cold fingers tangling between themselves trying to fasten the single buckle and tighten the straps. Your grip is frustratingly weak as you pull yourself together and finally feel secure.

The ship begins to rumble as the engines roar to life outside, the brutal screaming metal igniting a combustion that builds up the momentum the ship needs for take-off. You’re jostled in all directions as the ship rises out of the dense canopies of the forest and into the clouded and rainy sky. If you weren’t so deprived of your only reliable sense, the sensation of your gut falling through the floor in combination with the trembling in your hands, flying would be much less terrifying.

The ship steadies, feeling yourself being pulled downwards as the ship continues to accelerate upwards and break through a heavy layer of clouds and battle the planet’s gravitational field as you venture farther up through layers of atmosphere.

You’re suddenly blinded, the world flickering back to color and life as the armored man finally allows you the privilege of sight. Adjusting to the brightness, you look down to see yourself clutching your dead master’s cane, and the dead body no where in your vicinity. You begin to unbuckle yourself when the ship jolts aggressively forward again before assuming a more solid trajectory. _Hyperspace?_ You think.

The rhythmic steps of boots on metal sounds the arrival of the man your master called Mando, emerges from the cockpit and into the main hull where with shaking hands, you undo the buckles of the harness attaching you to the ship. You feel weightless and numb, both from being so bare in your wet dresses, as well as the from the anxiety marinating in every cell of your body as you constantly think about _what’s next?_

You observe the cane in your hands, finally being able to look at the finer details and intricacies of the device that had been the source of your chastising. With the pads of your fingers, you trace the silver inlays in the dark stained wood, many twisted vines and thorns wrapping with the grain of the wood around the cane as it leads to a club at the head. With a firm twist, the club comes undone, and out comes a dagger, serrated at an edge and with engravings on the body to match that of the cane from which it came unsheathed. The blade itself is light, meant to be held at the base by the club and in between one’s middle and ring fingers for maximum stability when stabbing and swiping across enemy skins. It is beautiful craftsmanship, akin to what you admire in the armored man’s Beskar armor- lifetime guarantee for its durability and strength.

“It’ll be two days of hyperspace until we get to Nevarro.” Mando says, interrupting your admiration for the cane. He walks past you and to an oversized metal cabinet. You glance up and watch him curiously, opening one of the heavy doors and out falls the pale and deceased arm of your dead master. The arm had fell from chest level, and you know Malsifer was not a tall man. Your eyes widen in shock as he nonchalantly tosses the arm back and punches a few numbers and commands into a num pad. The small corner of the ship erupts into icy smoke. To your surprise, your dead master had become encapsulated into a sheet of carbonite.

Like a newborn Fathier, your legs shake as you stand up, “W-What is going to happen to him?” You ask the armored man, watching him transfer the block to the other side of the large metal cabinet.

“I deliver him and collect my pay.” He responds, never turning to face or address you.

Your eyes continue to scan the man up and down, his shiny armor glistening in the artificial white light. It’s still hard for you to believe that you’re even alive and on his ship, sending a new wave of chills over your body as a million thoughts race.

“What is Nevarro?” You ask.

“A place where you get off.”

Your head snaps up, “Absolutely not.”

He finally turns to face you, body language, or helmet-language for lack of better term, completely expressionless- though you can sense that he is displeased.

“I don’t do charity.” He says, crossing you again and to another closed area of the ship, “I won’t be taxi-ing you from planet to planet till you make up your mind on where you want to get off.”

“I’ll pay you!” You exclaim, hoping to negotiate more time for your next move. Money is always a good incentive.

The modulated voice chuckles as he coaxes a wrapped bundle out from an alcove, “Oh yeah? How much?”

“Five… hun…-dred…” You say hesitantly, not knowing whether you even had fifty to your name. The accessibility to your funds was strictly managed. You’d been granted an allowance, not a good one, but one that if on the off occasion you were in a market with Malfiser you could afford a few treats and knick knacks. Everything was always provided for you, food, clothing, a roof over your head… there was everything to take for granted when now all you can probably afford is a scoff in the face.

He laughs again.

“Do better.” He says coldly before disappearing up into the cockpit, the bundle jostling in his arms.

You’re not sure what to make of it as… a pet? Some other strange extension of him… For all you know he could be completely alien underneath all the armor.

When next he returned, he wordlessly tosses you a heavy woven blanket of sorts. It was rough and thick, something one would probably use as insulation for building a house than to comfort and keep them warm at night. It would have to suffice, for you had nothing.

The armored man doesn’t return back down from the cockpit. You remain sitting on the metal wedge, having wrapped yourself in the scratchy blanket and deciding that you are not going to speak to him until you have a reliable and justifiable answer for what you’re going to do with yourself. If he wants to be succinct, so can you.

Thinking of what you have available to you, which isn’t very much, it would be easiest to take on a different identity. Changing your name would be the most painless, something that can be easily accomplished with a few elaborate lies here and there to justify why you don’t have legal documents or proof of identity. But how known are you in relation to Malsifer? Surely some of his past clients may recognize you, if you were to stumble into their network again. Your appearance would have to change too… A haircut, or costume change? Clothes would be the easiest to find, however, with what money? It would be against your morals to steal them from a shop or off someone in the streets. And you’re too fond of your hair, but if change be necessary then something would need to be done about it as well…

For what felt like a wink, you’re awakened by the sound of boots on metal. The animated Beskar moves past you, hoisting and moving objects around the hull. Though sleepily, you swear you can hear the incoherent babbling of a baby.

You feel something tugging at the blanket around your ankles, looking down, your blurry eyes widen in surprise at a small green face with enormous black pools for eyes staring up at you. Its ears are three times its tiny wingspan, so large that you’re sure it could hear the batting of your eyelashes as you blink in astonishment.

The armored man is the first to break his silence.

“The kid likes you.” He says, attempting to be friendly, “I don’t know why, but he does.”

You remain silent, picking up the child inquisitively and holding it gently on your lap. It coos and smiles at you, a handful of tiny sharp teeth protruding from teething gums looking back at you. For its age, it has wrinkles and a tiny spattering of white hair on top of its head. You’d never seen such an alien before, but then again, you’ve never seen anything like Mando before either. You admit to yourself that the child is cute, in the way that aliens are cute.

“Are we not on speaking terms anymore?” He asks brusquely, stacking a large crate on top of another nearby.

You do not look up to him to respond, offering the child your palm and it reaches with three grubby fingers to latch onto yours, playfully pulling and spreading them apart.

“Only when spoken to.” You respond, matching his tone.

His footsteps stop on the other side of the hull, “Is it something Malsifer had you do?” He grunts.

“It’s what you have me doing.” You respond sourly, letting a small smile crack just for the green toddler in your lap. 

You’re already annoyed with how stale the conversation was becoming, but if he is reluctant to be hospitable them you’re not obligated to be the kindest guest.

He lets out a sigh, murmuring to himself quietly, “ _Only when spoken to_.” He repeats.

You glance up at him, his back towards you and the child, leaning against the stack of crates he’d just assembled. In the back of your mind, you know it’s petty to behave so coldly, but it’s also his responsibility not just as a host, but as another living individual (you assume), to be reciprocate some sort of kindness.

Perhaps the conditions under which you two had met were far from ideal, and he had probably envisioned that you were somehow prepared every day for such a harrowing rescue and with a plan already in place to escape to a new world and start fresh all over again. That is not the case.

“Kids are easy.” You say mildly, to lighten up the air that felt heavy in the hull, “They’re very responsive to other people’s emotions and demeanors. Usually a baby knows to avoid ill-humored people even before an adult does, it’s an innate sense that is to their advantage when seeking out attention and affection.”

The child turns away from you, bored from playing with your hands and instead taking a comfortable seat on your lap from which to watch the conversation between the armored man and yourself.

He turns to face you, leaning his hip up against the crate, “Are you implying that my kid knows you’re not dangerous?”

“Most definitely.” You look up into his visor, “Like I said, kids are easy, and responsive. They lack the reasoning to know what it means to be suspicious, and their interests are almost always self-serving; so long as whatever you do for them is favorable by them, it feels rewarding to them and you earn their trust.”

Your words hang in the humming air as Mando continues to simply stare at you holding the child for a moment, his helmet unmoving. You wonder what he can see in the visor, is it like a window outside or is there computer software constantly running specs into his peripheral and every move is algorithmically calculated? How _much_ can he see? Like an x-ray, or heat signatures? You wonder too, why he hasn’t removed it since you’ve met.

Crossing his arms, he says quietly, “I’ll see what I can do for you. On Nevarro, I have a few connections… I’ll find out what I can to get you out of Malsifer’s mess.”

You smile gently towards him, “Why the change of heart? You first scoffed at me and now you want to help me.”

He shrugs, “You’re a foundling, and it’s against my code to turn you away… As much as it might inconvenience me to help you.”

“I’m not a child.” You chuckle, “But thank you.”

“You might as well be in this wild sector of galaxies. Malsifer sheltered you in his tiny sphere of influence, controlled you, and never let you learn anything beyond what was within his selfish interests. There are things you’ll have to learn, but you don’t have to do it alone.”

The genuine kindness swelled in your chest and uplifts your spirits. You feel optimistic that even if you get dumped on some planet, you’ll at least know what you’ll be looking for, and perhaps even consider yourself acquainted with the terrifying armored man that extended a helping hand to you. Beneath the Beskar is a conscience.

The child in your hand babbles in the direction of the armored man, extending its arms and wanting his attention now. He lumbers over, his footsteps heavy from fatigue, and picks it up from his grasp.

“What’s your name?” You ask.

He stops before you, perching the baby up onto his arm and looking down at your seated figure, “Just call me Mando.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asclepius-erebus.tumblr.com


End file.
